Ode to the Old

I cleaned out my house for the past few weeks. Hence the silence on the blog. It's hard to feel chatty when you're wading your way through piles of old jeans, red lampshades (what was I thinking? That I live in a Paris Boudoir?), and 500 mismatched Barbie shoes. It felt good to clean out the clutter. Cleared my head.

So then I had a yard sale. Watched how people fingered through my castoffs, sometimes with a little smile, that hint of delight. One person's trash really is the other's treasure. And after I spent a few hours making a few dollars, I hauled the rest to Goodwill.

And after making my donation, I went inside the store. It makes no sense, I know. Clean the place out, buy more stuff. But I just love thrift stores. I love that slightly musty smell, the unbelievably ugly things I see. And then there are those nifty finds. Green glass vases from 1970-something. Antique furniture.

I live in the burbs. I spend my fair share of time around people who spend a lot of money buying new things: bedroom sets to impress, fancy living room furniture, art--all in an effort to make their house look like the model homes, or pictures in Pottery Barn's catalogue. It's beautiful, but most of it says so little about the people who live in the house. Everything is beautiful, tasteful and shiny, but there's no good story to go with any of it. It's so... boring.

What I love most about thrift stores is that every piece of art, bric-a-brac, and scuffed furniture once sat in someone's house. Where people lived, fought, prayed--whatever. Thriftstore finds have a story. I have no idea what it is--and somehow, it makes for such a cool mystery.

Oh, and the other cool thing about thriftstores? Everything is so awesomely cheap! Hey, I am Dutch, after all.

Bummin'

Yeah, I'm bummin'. Not in a bad way--I'm not bummed out, but I am bumming. As in doing nothing, writing-wise. All around me, my most talented and cool writing friends are setting goals, getting words written, edited, submitted. But not me.

And I don't even feel bad about it one bit. I worked hard (wrote and edited 25k words in three weeks--and on finance, no less) in May, so now I'm giving myself a break. I will be vacationing with my kiddos and husband. Sometimes you have to smell the roses.

I'll be back in July. To write all about what the roses smell like.

Truth and Darkness

As you probably know (or you should by now, anyway), I write crime fiction, mostly YA suspense. My stories tend to be dark, a little gritty, and sometimes a little unconventional. Which makes it hard to find an agent, or editor, who will take a chance on my work. "Too dark," I hear a lot. "Why do go from the past to the future?"

Here's why: because I like it that way. There.

Of course, I know all about the conventions in fiction, in YA, and in mysteries. No killing off little kids, for one. Can't be too depressing. And I try to fit in, write to fit those conventions, at least some of the time.

Anyway, to get to my point (I do have one, in case you were wondering): a writer friend suggested I read R.A. Nelson's books, knowing I write YA Suspense. So I picked up Breathe my Name. The title was promising, so I started to read with optimism.

The book is Frances Robinson's story, a girl with a dark past. Her mother suffocated her three younger sisters, with Frances as the only one who got away. Years later, Francis lives with her foster family when her mother gets out of the mental institution. And Frances worries, and we worry right along with her as the mystery unfolds.

R.A. Nelson goes between today, when Frances is trying to figure out if her mother is trying to find her to finish what she started, and the past, leading up to those heart-wrenching deaths. So there's your switching between present and future--and R.A. Nelson does it beautifully. There are dead little kids, crazy parents, and the story is pretty dang tragic. All rules that we're not supposed to break. But Nelson does it with such class and finesse, I have to tip my hat.

People ask me sometimes: why the dark stories? Usually they follow up with: but you look so nice. I like these stories, as a reader and a writer, because they show the truth. There is no better time to show what a person is really about, then to put them in an extreme crisis. There is truth in that darkness.

Not that us gloomy writers don't know how to have a happy ending. Because it's always darkest before dawn, right?

Grumpy

I've been fighting a bad mood for over week now. I'm hustling work, kids, house, and migraines--which only leads to more migraines. And grumpiness.

I tried to cheer myself up by planting colorful annuals in the yard. No luck on busting grumpy streak. I bought chocolate. Still grumpy. Read a good book, but mood was not lifted. Good music, nuhuh, still cranky.

I guess sometimes you just gotta go with your inner grump.

Who's your audience?

After waiting my turn at my local redbox vending machine, I finally got a hold of Marley and Me. The kids had been wanting to see this one, so we settled in with our snacks and drinks for a nice family movie night. They're my favorite pastime, btw.

On a side note: I had asked one of my mommy friends what she thought of the movie, if it seemed okay for my kids' age (6 and 9). "It was good," she said. Then she lowered her voice. "But they do say 'crap' in it." I resisted the urge to laugh at this comment (we use bigger words than crap in my house--accidentally, I assure you), and made a note to rent the movie soon.

So we watched Marley and Me, expecting a nice family movie with a dog in it. And it was a really good movie. With a dog. Oh, and a few kids, as very minor characters. Because the main character, the one whose story we were watching, was a grown man (played by funny Owen Wilson), trying to figure out who he was.

THIS WAS NOT A CHILDREN'S MOVIE. And I'm not referring to the language, or the many sexual insinuations (and a miscarriage--really, 'crap' was the most inappropriate part of this movie to you?) in the story. I'm referring to the fact that this was a story only people over 30 could appreciate.

Now I'll admit, I never read the book (shame on me). But this movie was marketed as a kid's movie. And we all know why. It makes money that way. Very, very dishonest use of marketing.

Still, if you're over 30, enjoy this movie (with a big box of tissues, 'cause it's a whopper of a tearjerker). The dog is adorable.

The Perfect Snack

I love to snack, especially when reading or writing. Usually they're M&Ms, or some other snack of the chocolate variety--but a few weeks ago, I accidentally made these really, really good oatmeal cookies. People loved me, or hated me ("Are you trying to make me fat?") for sharing them. But I thought I should give out the recipe, 'cause these cookies really rock.

Rockin' Oatmeal Cookies (this recipe makes about 3 dozen cookies)

1. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees
2. Mix 2 sticks of soft butter with 1 cup of regular sugar, and 1 cup of brown sugar
3. Add 2 teaspoons of vanilla extract and 2 eggs (use a mixer, if you have one, or a fork)
4. Slowly mix in 2 teaspoons of cinnamon, and 2 1/2 cups of self-rising flour (if you don't live at high altitude, make that 2 cups)
5. Taste the dough. It's really good.
6. Finally, add 3 cups of old-school oatmeal, and 2 cups of raisins. You can add nuts too, if you're into that--me, not so much.
7. Bake for 16 minutes on a waxpaper-lined cookie sheet. While you wait, you can practice how you'll respond to all the praise you'll get ("It was nothing, really." Or: "I just whipped these up." Or, "Really, I should be a chef?")
8. Eat cookies. Share if you must.

Gentlemen

When I was still in my teens, I had a few boyfriends before I found my guy-for-life. And I still remember what my grandma used to say, after asking me about the latest. "As long as he's nice to you."

Truer words were never spoken. I was lucky enough to find my gentleman, and have been married to him for fifteen years.

But I still remember how blurry that dating time was. How difficult it was to define that "nice," and how blurry the line to "not nice."

On Alice's CWIM blog, guest-blogger Sarah Raasch has some incredibly smart things to say about Twilight, and what a bad example beloved Edward is: emotionally abusive, controlling, with stalker-qualities. Ugh. I know what my grandma would say about that guy.

Which brings me to this question: what responsibility does the writer have in the message of their books? Especially in YA...

Is it okay for girls to aspire to this Edward-type boyfriend?